


Killing me softly

by Sani86



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Based on a song: killing me softly, Hey look I'm writing canonverse!, I mean there's nothing overtly romantic or sexual going on here, M/M, Post-Season/Series 01, Pre-slash I guess?, Reunions, They both just need a hug okay, geralt is sad, jaskier deserves an apology, preferably from each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29841456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/pseuds/Sani86
Summary: Geralt tries to adjust to life without Jaskier. It's not exactly a roaring success. But he's trying, dammit. The bard can't be found, and he's doing his best. No-one has to know.And then, one night, in a dingy inn in a little nowhere town, he hears a familiar voice...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 142





	Killing me softly

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently my brain now works like this: hear a good song --> think "this is such a Jaskier song!" --> write fic.
> 
> This one was inspired by Killing me softly - I favour the Roberta Flack version. It just sounds like such a Geralt experience.
> 
> Anyway, without further ado: enjoy.

It had been a long time. 

Years.

So much had happened. The fall of Cintra. The battle at Sodden Hill. Ciri. So much was different, so much was the same. Winters in Kaer Morhen, the rest of the year on the Path. Monsters and killings and arrogant, tight-arsed humans trying to deny him his due. Only now, instead of protecting an idiot bard, he was protecting his daughter-of-sorts (although, truth be told, she was more capable of looking after herself than the idiot had ever been). Yennefer was back in his life, though more for Ciri’s sake than his own - she was still a bit sore over the whole wish incident - and the bard was still out of it.

And still, that Stupid Fucking Song followed him everywhere. Granted, it helped fill his purse - just like Jas- like  _ he _ predicted it would, all those years ago. But it never sounded quite right in anyone else’s voice.

Gods. Geralt couldn’t even bring himself to say the bard’s name in his own head.

That had to be wrong, surely? To still feel that stab of pain and guilt, that echo of loss. It’s not like they’d never been separated for years at a time before. Not like they’d never fought - hell, they argued more than any ostensible friends had a right to. Bickering was their currency, biting insults their favourite game. 

Although, come to think of it… 

Geralt had usually been the one firing the shots.  _ He  _ would just laugh, or huff indignantly, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. At worst, write a mocking song in revenge and torture Geralt with it for weeks on end.

The sad smile that unconsciously twitched at Geralt’s lips betrayed just how precious those memories were to him.

Geralt reached into his pack, taking out a leather folder. He fished out a clean piece of paper and a pencil.

This was a thing he started the winter after the dragon hunt, when Lambert told him to  _ stop moping around, for fuck’s sake, what’s wrong with you? _ Eskel, with rather more diplomacy, had suggested he write about whatever was bugging him. Get it out of his head, before he got himself killed by his distraction.

Geralt had no idea why he took Eskel’s advice - an excess of alcohol and melancholy, probably - but one night he started writing a letter to  _ him _ . Poured it all out onto paper - the guilt, the regret, the apologies that would never be quite enough. Fuck, he’d been such a cruel, ungrateful asshole. 

Whoever started the rumour that witchers don’t have feelings would have been impressed at the amount of tears smudging the crudely-scribbled words.

Geralt was horrified when he read it over the next morning, in the clear light of sobriety. He promptly tossed the paper in the fire and resolved never to think of it again. 

But the thing was… he felt better. Kind of like lancing a boil - it was horrible to watch, but the release of the pressure was such a sweet relief.

Unfortunately, also like a boil, the pressure tended to build up again. The infection wasn’t cured, after all. So despite Geralt’s best intentions, the letters continued. He always burned them afterwards. Couldn’t risk anyone reading them. And in some strange way, the certain knowledge that his words would be destroyed made it easier to pour out his heart, holding nothing back.

Today had been rough. Ciri and Yennefer were off doing… something, while Geralt helped this shithole of a town with a little selkimore problem. At least this time he managed to dispose of the beast without being swallowed first. The townsfolk, in their gratitude, provided him with a bath (a branch of memory lane that he quickly and fiercely shut down), a hot meal and a bed for the night. Which was how he found himself sitting at a dark little table in a dingy pub, flagon of ale untouched in front of him, scribbling down his thoughts in a mostly fruitless attempt to rid himself of the memories today had dredged up.

Geralt didn’t pay much attention to the sound of a lute being tuned somewhere in the background. If it weren’t for his heightened hearing, he wouldn’t have noticed it at all. Sure, the barmaid who served his drink had babbled about some wonderful singer they were having later tonight -  _ lovely young man, such good songs, such style _ \- but Geralt had pointedly ignored her until she got the message and went away. He had no interest in bards.

Well, in  _ other  _ bards.

If anyone asked, he hadn’t been looking for  _ him _ . He would deny it to his last breath. Yennefer certainly knew better than to point out the way his eyes immediately shot up to follow any figure bearing a string instrument, before disappointedly looking away again. Ciri didn’t know enough to notice that they always sought out the inns and taverns with live music.

Geralt wasn’t searching for him. But he might admit that he was keeping an eye out. The idiot tended to attract trouble, after all.

And as the months and years went by and he didn’t find anything… well, even he wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or disappointed.

_ Killed a selkimore today, _ Geralt wrote.  _ Took me back, that did. Sadly, this time there was no-one waiting with a rather aggressive bath - really, was it necessary to try and drown me? - and the promise of wine, women and song. Tonight there’s just bad beer and a cold bed. But there is song, or there will be. Not as good as you, though, I’ve no doubt. _

He stared at the paper, mentally playing over some old, familiar songs in his head. He wondered if he still remembered it right. Would he recognise  _ his _ voice if he heard it again? He liked to think he would, but memory was a fickle thing. What’s more, the bard was only human; he would be getting older, his voice perhaps changing as his hair greyed and his face got more lined…

Oh, fuck, no way. He was  _ not _ going to be thinking of that. Tonight was not a night for weeping into his beer, knowing that, while his bard was (presumably,  _ hopefully _ ) still out there somewhere, alive and well, there would come a day when he... wouldn’t be. When Geralt would walk on a world that no longer contained…

Nope, nope, nope. Not tonight.

_ I wonder if your voice still sounds the same, _ he wrote, trying to push down those thoughts.  _ It was always lovely, despite what I may have said.  _ He paused, smiling at a private memory.  _ I didn’t mean it with the pie comment, you know? I was just… grumpy. Tired, and frustrated. And as usual, I took it out on you. I’m a fucking idiot.  _

Geralt chewed on the end of the pencil for a bit before he continued. _ Besides, if you’re a pie without filling, the other singers I’ve heard since then don’t even have pastry. They’re just… stale bread, maybe. _

Geralt chuckled to himself.  _ God, you’d get such a big head if you could read this. _

Another pause.

_ I should have told you. You deserved that much. More. Instead of… _

He was pulled from his musings by the evening’s entertainment starting up - an unfamiliar tune, unfamiliar words, but sung by a horribly familiar voice. 

At first, he thought it was a product of his overactive imagination. A hallucination, of sorts, fuelled by the beer and his reminiscences and his longing to hear that voice again.

But one glance at the singer was enough to convince him otherwise.

Bloody fucking hell, what were the odds?  _ What were the odds?!  _ A veritable hurricane of emotions - that he supposedly  _ shouldn't be able to feel _ , fuck you very much - welled up in him, stole the breath from his lungs.

His bard looked… different. His clothes were darker, less flashy. Still perfectly tailored, judging by the way the trousers hugged his thighs, but more… grown up? Was that it? Or was it the beard he now sported that gave that impression? He’d grown his hair out a bit too - it curled softly at his shoulders, streaked with paler highlights that suggested he’d spent too much time in the sun without a hat. Perhaps he’d gone to the coast after all? Geralt felt a little pang of regret. They could have done that together, if he hadn’t…

Geralt shook his head. Pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming - ow, fuck! Nope, he was definitely awake. He took hold of his beer mug with both hands and sat back a bit, pulling into the shadows. Jaskier - oh, there it was; apparently he could think the name now that they were in the same room - Jaskier was perched on a high stool, facing half-away from him, so he couldn’t see him. Geralt wasn’t sure if he wanted him to. But there was no way to get out now without walking into his line of sight. And if he knew anything about the bard, he wouldn’t stay sitting still for long. He was bound to see Geralt sooner or later.

Wait.

Why was he thinking like this? Why was he planning his escape?

Even Geralt, with his negative emotional intelliegnce quotient, could see how idiotic that was. He’d been searching - no, not searching, just, um, keeping an eye out - for the bard for how long, now?

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he reprimanded himself, and settled in to listen.

The singing went on, and on, and fucking  _ on _ . Geralt felt like he was on the rack. To his relief and disappointment and nerve-wracking  _ what the fuck is this feeling even  _ frustration, Jaskier didn’t look his way even once. He put on his usual show, walking as he played and sang, flirting and winking and charming everyone - and yet somehow he never so much as turned toward the corner Geralt was sitting in.

Which was fine.

Geralt didn’t want to be seen. Couldn’t imagine what his face was showing. He was sure it was on fire. Because every song -  _ Every. Single. Fucking. Song _ \- triggered some memory or another. Happy ones, sad ones, ridiculous and terrifying and heartbreaking ones. At one point Geralt asked himself when Jaskier had become so entwined in his life that every word out of his damn mouth could send him into a reverie. It was ridiculous.

It was terrifying.

Because Geralt had no idea what to make of it all. He didn’t know what name to put to the feelings that were threatening to overwhelm him. There was fondness there, and exasperation, and longing for something that he’d had to lose before he could appreciate his true value, all mixed through with something warm and entirely unfamiliar.

Eventually, Geralt stopped trying to figure it out, and just let the melodies wash over him as the (frankly terrible) beer slowly dissolved his synapses.

Jaskier’s music had changed in the years they’d been apart. Gone were the rowdy tunes, the bawdy lyrics only just toeing the line of propriety (when they didn’t tumble right over into indecent). Now, his songs spoke of a life lived to the full, with all the joy and pain that goes with it.

The song he was singing now, for instance - it was heartache, and longing, and grief distilled down and turned into music. It was the final anthem of a soul that had been ripped open and left for dead, but was still standing, waving its pain like a battle flag and giving two fingers to the fates.

It was a punch to the gut.

Every word, every note, felt like it had been pulled straight from Geralt’s soul. As if… as if Jaskier had read those letters, every one, and taken them and turned them into…  _ this. _ This poetry, this art, this instrument of sweet, searing torture. It was like being killed, slowly,  _ agonisingly; _ poison dripping into his ears and seeping into his veins, wrapping its tendrils around his heart, stealing his breath.

A flood of cold on his hands and legs yanked Geralt back to the present.

“Ah,  _ fuck _ ,” Geralt hissed, as he saw the beer pouring over his lap to pool on the floor in a foaming mess. He’d been squeezing the damn tankard so hard he cracked it. Annoyed, he put the remains of the thing down on the table and wiped his hands on a dry bit of his shirt. 

Some part of his brain registered the faltering in the lute’s melody, but he was too busy dealing with his little mess to notice the flash of blue eyes in his direction that preceded it.

The song stopped - mid-sentence, if Geralt had been paying attention, which he hadn’t.

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” Jaskier said. “I just… need a moment.”

And, oh gods, Jaskier was coming over. He’d spotted Geralt, and he was walking over, cautiously, as if he wasn’t quite sure if what he was seeing was real. As if he was trying not to spook a wild animal.

Fuck fuck  _ fuck! _ Geralt fixed his eyes on the tabletop and frantically wondered what to do. Should he get up and go over? Hide? Run away into the night? 

In the end, Jaskier made the decision for him.

“Love how you still just... sit in the corner and brood,” came that familiar voice. Geralt could hear the grin before he looked up to see it.

Words. He should say words. Something. Anything.

“Jask i e r -” was all he managed, before his throat closed up, his voice dying in a strangled sort of croak.

“Here by yourself, huh? Ever the loner?” Jaskier said, and this time Geralt could see the cracks in his smile, the sadness seeping through the mask.

Words still wouldn’t come, damn it. Geralt just stared.

“Come on, then,” Jaskier said, the lightness in his tone becoming more strained with every word. “Three-” his voice cracked a bit, and he swallowed. “Three words or less,” he finished, smiling weakly.

Fuck it all. Geralt stood up so quickly the chair went clattering back onto the floor.

Jaskier winced at the noise, at the sudden movement. Geralt felt the knife in his heart twist. His bard was  _ scared of him. _ He’d  _ never _ been scared of him before, no matter how much reason he’d had.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said again, softly this time. He reached out a hand to touch Jaskier’s arm, and when he didn’t flinch, pulled him into a hug.

Oh  _ gods _ , Jaskier was here. Here, right  _ here, _ in his arms, pressed against his chest. Geralt’s mind was reeling, he thought his heart might burst.

“I missed you,” he managed, just above a whisper. “And I’m sorry. So fucking sorry. For everything.”

Jaskier chuckled against his chest. It was a watery sort of sound, the kind that suggests the laugher is trying hard to hold back tears.

“That’s more than three words, you know.”

“Shut up,” Geralt grumbled fondly.

“Aaaand there’s the Geralt I know,” Jaskier said. He pulled back out of the hug. “Seriously, though? Are you sure you’re actually Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, formerly known as the Butcher of Blaviken? What with the… hugs, and apologies and all?” He flicked his hands around in that adorable way he had, and dammit, when did Geralt start thinking words like  _ adorable?!  _ “All evidence suggests you’re some sort of… shapeshifter, or something.”

“You’re impossible,” Geralt grumbled.

“Look,” Jaskier said. “I should probably give them another song or two. But if you’ll hang around…?”

“Yes,” Geralt said decisively. Didn’t matter what the rest of that question was, the answer was yes. “I’ll wait. For you. Yes.”

“Okay, then,” Jaskier said, and finally,  _ finally _ treated Geralt to that smile he’d missed so much.

Just in time, Geralt remembered that that  _ particular  _ smile was usually a prelude to trouble.

“Jaskier, don’t you dare,” he began, but the bard just walked off, laughing.

_ “When a humble bard…” _ Jaskier started his song. Geralt buried his face in his arms and groaned.

Some things, it seemed, never changed.

  
  
*****************************************

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo..... volunteers to write a smutty sequel? I feel like there should be one, but I'm all out of brain cells for the mo.


End file.
